


Fault

by Clare_nightly



Series: Fault [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clare_nightly/pseuds/Clare_nightly
Summary: Strike struggles with blame with Robin in the hospital.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Fault [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940734
Comments: 17
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and of the unwashed, the sharp odours stinging his nose. He pushed down his panic, ignoring the indignant desk nurse as he barrelled through the swinging doors, going further into the white walled maze. They’d said she was in room 314--or was it 315? His knee screamed in protest at the speed at which he was moving. Would they let him see her? Didn’t matter. He would see her. 

A hospital employee turned the corner, pushing a cart full of the evening’s meals, the smell of pork and potatoes mixing unpleasantly with the antiseptic. He slowed, attempting to heave his bulk out of the cart’s way, but his prosthesis was uncooperative, clipping into the cart’s edge and spinning him toward the wall. Strike swore vehemently, more out of pure frustration than actual pain, as he braced himself. He waved off the apologies of the surprised cart pusher, and resumed his run towards Robin. As he ran, he heard her voice, agreeing happily to the long drive to Cornwall, teasing him about what kind of biscuits she should buy for the trip. . .the feelings of blame and guilt ever since he had received the call from the hospital threatened to overwhelm him completely. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he pushed open the door to 314. 

And there she was, reclining on the bed, her eyes closed. A large, purplish bruise was forming on her right cheekbone, smaller bruises and cuts dotting her bare arms. Stitches had been applied to a particularly nasty gash along her cheekbone. Her complexion was unnaturally pale and drawn, golden hair tangled and splayed across the cheap cotton pillow. He moved toward the bed, knocking into the nurse’s mobile monitor as he did so. “Fuck,” he muttered. 

She stirred, fluttering her eyes and stretching slightly. Her clothes were rumpled, with a few small bloodstains evident. With a start, she woke, and her gaze almost immediately found his.

“Robin are you--” 

“I’m fine--just a few bruises and cuts--mild concussion” she hurried to placate him. “They’re going to release me soon,” She attempted a small smile. At this, Strike sank into the room’s only chair with undisguised relief.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said with difficulty, pinching the bridge of his nose. He suddenly felt exhausted, as if he’d been awake for days on end. Fractured images of Robin swirled in his head, her slender arm marred with the ropey scar, her face pale and bloodless at the sight of Raphael’s pistol. His fault. Always his fault. 

Robin, feeling the need to reassure, broke the silence.  
“Cormoran, I swear I’m--” 

“Fine. I know. I heard you the first time,” He cut her off, knowing and not caring that he was rude. He couldn’t handle her making light of the situation for his sake. They sat in silence, the only sound was the beeping of the monitor.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “When they called. . .they didn’t give me any information, just said you’d been in an accident. Thought the worst. . ,” he let his voice trail off. The cab ride to A&E had been the worst twenty minutes of his life. He let his face fall into his hands. 

Without warning, fingertips grazed the side of his face, stroking the stubble he’d forgotten to shave earlier. He froze. The fingertips moved into his hair, and he felt some of the anger, the frustration at not being whole, at not being able to drive his own bloody self anywhere, melt. 

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” she whispered. He looked up, removing his hands from his face. Her eyes were clear, her expression soft. 

“S’alright,” He murmured, taking her hand between his own. It felt so small between his own, but it helped to calm the trembling in his fingers. Feeling the need to lighten the situation, he added, “Though I do think that given what I’ve been through, I’m entitled to my pick of biscuit for the next month,”

Robin rolled her eyes. “You would use my injuries as leverage for your biscuit addiction. The accident wasn’t my fault--”

“Of course it wasn’t--”

“Idiotic London drivers, not yielding properly. . .nothing I could do. Would’ve been worse had I. . .well, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she cut herself off, seeing the expression on Strike’s face. His fingers were idly rubbing patterns on her skin, sending warm tingles up her arm. The rational voice inside of his head suggested letting go of her hand, and he promptly ignored it. To hell with being careful. He brought her hand to his lips, echoing the gesture he made so long ago, when there were more barriers in place between the two of them. 

“Strike,” she began.

“Yeah?” 

“Will you take me home?” It was a practical question, layered with meaning and possibility. 

His eyes darkened. “‘Course I will,” 

“And will you buy me a curry?” she asked hopefully.

He laughed. “Suppose I can manage that as well,” 

“Excellent,” she sighed, relaxing back onto the bed and closing her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike offers to stay over.

Despite the nurse’s reassurances that Robin would be released shortly, it was still a solid two hours before the two of them found themselves outside the hospital. The night air was cool and damp, and Robin found herself shivering despite her jacket. Strike, fighting the urge to have a cigarette, removed his coat and placed it on her shoulders. 

“Thanks,” she said, oddly touched that he had noticed her discomfort. He shrugged non-committedly. The heaviness of the coat felt pleasant, still warm as it was from Strike’s body. Strike hailed a cab, and they climbed in, giving Robin’s address to the driver. 

The ride back to her flat was of a much different nature than the one he had taken earlier, and passed much more quickly. Within what seemed like no time, they had arrived outside her flat. Fare paid, they sent the cab away, but neither made a move to the house. The door, it seemed, represented all of the lines and boundaries they had so determinedly drawn throughout the years, and to go through it signified a shift in their relationship as great--or greater--than the hug on the staircase, surrounded by flowers. Robin found herself wondering where the line was today, and whether or not it could be pushed a little further. 

“Max isn’t here this weekend,” she said suddenly, startling Strike from his own thoughts, which had been determinedly fixated on Arsenal’s chances of a win this weekend, and not on how well Robin looked in his clothes. She winced inwardly at the bluntness of her comment, which had been intended to sound nonchalant. 

“Oh,” he responded dumbly. They continued to stare at the door. 

“Cormoran, would you mind--” she started. 

“I don’t think you should stay alone--concussion--” he fumbled, gesturing at her head. 

They both fell silent. It was Robin who broke the silence first. “Well, come on in then,” she smiled, and pulled him along inside. 

The house was more quiet than usual, as Max had taken Wolfgang with him on his trip home. Robin, feeling self-conscious at the fact that her bed was feet away, reluctantly gave Strike’s coat back to him, and hung up her purse. 

“Don’t forget, you promised me a curry,” she teased.

“Couldn’t forget if I wanted,” he grumbled. “Haven’t eaten anything since noon,” 

“Poor thing,” she mocked good-naturedly. “I think I’ll shower--change my clothes--”she said, gesturing at the bloodstains on her shirt. 

“Right,” he said, trying very hard not to wonder what she would change into. “I’ll just go--” he motioned upstairs, but Robin had already turned around. 

“Make yourself at home!” She called over her shoulder.  
He felt oddly disembodied as he made his way upstairs, as if the last four hours had been a dream. Strike couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to leave, to make his excuses now, and head back to the safety of his attic flat, before things escalated to a point from which they could not return. The exhaustion he had felt earlier had dissipated, leaving a strange, almost giddy energy in its wake. The rational part of his brain chalked it up to hunger and stress. It certainly wasn’t the fact that Robin was just downstairs, taking her clothes off, cleaning her golden hair--no, he told himself. She’s your partner, nothing more. 

After nosing around in the kitchen for a few minutes, he managed to put on a kettle of tea. No whisky tonight, he told himself. Not with her concussion. A quick search on his phone, and their curry order was on its way. He sank into the couch with relief, and closed his eyes. 

Robin meanwhile, was trying very hard to enjoy the hot shower, and to not think about her burly partner upstairs. The entire evening had had a surreal quality to it, as if it were not quite real. What clothes to put on now seemed a virtually unsolvable problem. It felt ridiculous to put on street clothes at this time of night in her own home, but presumptuous to put on any type of pajamas. Thoughts of lingerie rose unbidden in her thoughts, and she squashed it immediately, cheeks flushed. Settling for leggings and one of her softest shirts, she towel dried her hair. 

Meanwhile, Strike, having paid the delivery man, waited upstairs, wondering whether or not it was rude to eat without her, and whether or not he should check on his concussed partner. He had just resolved to go downstairs when the sound of footsteps made him sink back into the couch. Sure enough, Robin appeared. Her hair was damp, a tarnished gold, her face scrubbed clean. Beautiful, he thought, before the carefully kept part of his brain could be reigned in. 

ate in companionable silence, neither feeling the need to say much. The room was dim, the only sounds the music from passing cars below. 

“Thank you for staying,” she murmured, some time later. 

He swallowed. “It’s nothing,”

They stared at one another, each expression a careful mask to hide the rush of emotion underneath. 

“D’you mind sleeping on the couch?” she asked quickly, regretting it.

Strike insisted that he did not, in fact, mind sleeping on the couch, but his insistence did nothing to stem the tide of disappointment flowing through him. Robin stood to dispose of their trash and fetch blankets, returning with two old quilts. To his surprise, she rejoined him, this time sitting even closer as she arranged the blankets over them. “Cold,” she murmured in way of explanation. Then, without allowing herself to think too much, she leaned over, curling into his side. His warm solidity was soothing, and she felt his arm wrap around her, large hand coming to rest on her waist. Feeling emboldened, she stretched her arm out over his chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt. 

He stiffened, coming to his senses. This--whatever this was--was headed into dangerous territory. “Robin, I--”

A soft snore interrupted him. He froze. Sure she was teasing, he waited, only to realize that she had actually fallen asleep. On him. Despite himself, he grinned, a wave of utter contentment passing over him. He relaxed his body, allowing his hand to resume its position at her waist, where it fit so neatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fairly quickly, so I apologize for any typos/errors. Toying with the idea of taking it further, so let me know if you have any thoughts! Thanks for reading. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Risks are taken.

Robin woke with a start, disoriented and head aching. The room was dark and quiet, the only light coming from the bluish green clock on the stove. Her left arm was asleep, wedged behind--her eyes widened. He had stayed. Her heart began to beat wildly, thumping against her ribcage, and a sense of daring filled her as she undid two buttons on his shirt with her free hand.  
What is it about the middle of the night, she wondered, stroking his chest, that makes it feel alright to break the rules? His chest was broad, and, like she suspected, covered with hair. She kept her explorations tame, until, growing bored, she became bolder in an attempt to rouse him.

Strike woke with a snort, mildly disappointed at having to end a rather pleasant dream. To his surprise, he still felt Robin’s touch, and reality hit him like a train. “Robin, what are you--” 

“Shh,” she murmured, sitting up to place a finger to chapped lips. “S’alight,” Her arms, now both free, snaked around the back of his neck, pulling him to her. He groaned involuntarily, and his hands found her waist, her curves. Her face, what he could see of it, was soft, and slightly creased from his jacket. Their mouths met, and he longed to lose himself completely in her, in her softness, her beauty. Unbidden, a single incongruent image floated to the front of his mind. His office. Their office, but with Robin’s desk missing.

“Robin, no--terrible idea--” he gasped, gently pushing her off of him as his sense of reason awoke. Her expression fell, confusion and hurt mixing, and the guilt it engendered in him nearly overwhelmed him. His fault. Always his fault.

“I think I need a glass of water,” she whispered hoarsely. She stood, more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life, with the distinct feeling of having let something slip through her grasp. Strike watched her go, filled with regret. His life, years from now, flashed before him, and in every image, he was alone. Still alone. 

“Robin,” he began, his voice still harsh from sleep. She turned to him, uncertain and cautious, and he hated himself for waiting so long. He took a breath, and let himself fall. 

“You. . .you are everything to me. You are the voice I want to hear whenever I am having a shit day, the smile I want to see whenever I’m feeling low,” He forced himself to plow on. “Christ, you don’t know how many times I catch myself thinking about how bloody beautiful you are, when you’re taking notes or talking to Pat or pouring a cup of tea or concentrating really hard--  
And I’ve thought it over again and again and there are only three ways that this could play out, really. I could not say anything, and we could continue on, working like we do, enjoying each other’s company. But eventually, you’re going to find someone, and get married. And I’ll have to live with that. Or, we could try to have a relationship. And we’ll be happy, at least for a while, but then we’ll do something to fuck it up, and the agency we’ve built together will be broken, irreparable.” It was the longest speech she’d ever heard him make. A heaviness filled the room, stifling and serious. 

“What’s the third option?” she asked, quietly. 

He lifted his eyes to hers. “The third option is that we fuck the risk, and do it anyway.” 

Slowly, deliberately, she walked across the room to kneel in front of him. Maintaining eye contact, she placed her hand on the side of his face, stroking the rough stubble. His eyes watched her, hungrily. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his for a moment before pulling back to stare at him. His expression was softer, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. 

“Fuck the risk,” she whispered, tangling her fingers in his curls. He nodded once, having said all there was to say, and crushed his lips to hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and for the warm welcome into the fandom! It was fun writing this one, though a little challenging at times.


End file.
